


Mist of Years

by kat_snow2613



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dark!Jon, F/M, Grief, Loss, Oral Sex, Sadness, Separation, Vaginal Sex, or maybe more resentful!Jon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-04-04 19:04:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14026746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kat_snow2613/pseuds/kat_snow2613
Summary: How long can Jon wait for Sansa?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't really know where this came from, but I got the idea and wanted to explore it. 
> 
> Also I think the show hated Stannis and the circumstances of Shireen's sacrifice will be entirely different, to the point where he might not even be involved, and this fic operates from that point of view.

The night before her wedding, Sansa sat in her bedchamber, preparing. One of her maids brushed her hair while another rubbed oil into her skin. It all felt wonderful, and was a welcome distraction from her nerves. 

The door to her chamber swung open. Jon entered, his features distorted with stress. 

“You can not do this, Sansa,” he said. 

“Leave us,” she told her maids. 

He waited silently for the girls to leave. Sansa picked up the brush. She still needed to finish. Once the girls were gone Jon continued.

“Do not marry him. You can refuse him,” he said, pacing back and forth.

“I can do no such thing,” she said as she worked out a tangle in her hair.

“You must.”

“Refuse to marry the King? Jon, you know better than that.” There was barely even time for an engagement. He’d received word his daughter had been murdered by a witch at the Wall, and his wife killed herself in her grief. He needed a Queen, and an heir, immediately. 

“Perhaps you could refuse, but you just want to be Queen,” he said, with a malice that sounded foreign in his voice. 

“That’s cruel, and not like you,” she scolded him. He stopped pacing. 

“You’re right, forgive me,” he said, dropping to his knees in front of her. He hugged her legs. “Sansa, please, I love you.” He looked up at her like a small child. Her heart ached. She wanted to comfort him.

“I know,” she said, stroking his face. 

“You love me too, I know it,” he said, looking up at her, pleading. 

“Of course I do,” she said. She closed her eyes and let herself forget, for just a minute. She stroked his face and hair. She imagined being able to stay here in Winterfell, with Jon. She imagined sharing his bed, every night. She imagined placing his first son in his arms.

“Then refuse him,” he said, his voice still determined. As if he could convince her. As if Sansa had not already played out every possible scenario in her mind. She forced herself to stay calm.

“I can not.” 

“Can not or will not?” he stood, shouting. Sansa was tired of this. She was tired of his willful ignorance.

“Do you think this situation is so simple? Do you not realize your head is still attached to your shoulders because of me?” she demanded. Jon stared at her, refusing to let on if he understood or not. She was going to have to force him to understand. 

“Stannis Baratheon was not inclined to let the son of Rhaegar Targaryen live. I had to beg him for your life. I had to convince him that you were Stark to the bone, and you would never make a claim to the Iron Throne. Do you know how many men he could have named Lord of Winterfell? I convinced him that you were the only man who could lead the North. Don’t you realize that came with a price?” As realization crept over him, she watched him struggle with a thousand different emotions. He decided to go with stupidity.

“I would rather die than see you with another man!”

“Well, Jon, then that is the difference between us. I would rather be with another man so that you could live.” 

She expected him to scream, to throw something. He did the very last thing she expected. He began to cry openly.

“Is this my choice then? I can have Winterfell, my life, but I can not have you?”

 _You do have me, you will always have me, in my heart if no where else,_ she thought. She could not give him false hope. That would be even more cruel. 

“It’s not a choice Jon, because I’ve already made it.”

He nodded and rubbed away his tears. “Can I make one last request, of my Queen?”

She nodded.

“Can I kiss you, one last time?”

She wanted to go to him. She wanted to throw her arms around his neck and taste the salt of his tears and the sweetness of his lips. 

“No. It’s too hard, Jon.”

He let out a sob. “Then I’ll leave you to prepare for your wedding,” he said with such scorn it made her stomach twist. 

He reached the door in three long strides but he stopped. 

“Whether you will kiss me or not, whether I have to stand and watch you marry another man, I make this vow here and now. I will never marry another woman,” he stated. 

She didn’t know what caused her more pain--the thought of Jon alone, or with another woman. Yet his vow brought her no comfort. She knew it might even last a year, perhaps two. It did not matter. He would eventually have to marry, and she would lose him all over again.

“Goodnight, Lord Stark.”


	2. Chapter 2

Sansa sat on her son’s bed. Davos looked up at her. He had large blue eyes, and thick black hair, like all of her children, like every Baratheon. She brushed his hair out of his face. 

“Papa’s gone, isn’t he?” he asked. Sansa knew the pain he was in. She’d felt that pain herself. She would have given anything to take that pain from him. But that was impossible.

“Yes, my love. He’s gone,” she said. 

“He’s not coming back,” he said. At only five years old, he’d been struggling with the concept for a few weeks. 

“No, never,” she whispered. 

“Steffon is King now?” he asked, tugging on the edge of his blankets. 

“Yes. Steffon is the King now, and that means that you are his heir. That means it’s very important that you read your histories, to be a good, wise prince,” she said. 

“I will do my best, Mother,” he said proudly. 

“I know you will, my love. How about a story, and then bed?” 

She told him the story of the Winged Knight, the same story that used to soothe another little boy that she once knew. His eyes began to flutter, and then his black eyelashes met, and his chest began to rise and fall, and his sweet, small body fell asleep. 

Sansa had been married to Stannis for ten years. She’d given him three children. At only nine years old, Steffon was already the perfect heir. He was just as serious and diligent as his father. Whether it was the lance, the sword, or math tables, he did something over and over again until he perfected it. She used to have to encourage him to play. The concept seemed strange to him. Now, she had to remind him the he could grieve his father. He seemed determined to attend every meeting, and meet every lord who had arrived in the capital for the funeral. 

Davos was five, and worshipped Steffon. He wanted to be just like him. It reminded her so much of the way Bran had looked up to Robb. Davos even had Bran’s kinder, gentler nature. While no less talented, he could make children and adults laugh with his natural playfulness. It was a blessing. Steffon would need his brother’s friendly nature to dull his sharp edges at court. 

Cassana was only three. Her blue eyes sparkled when she laughed and her long black curls flew behind her like a silken flag when she chased after her brothers. She was so curious and spirited, she wanted to know whatever they were doing. As her first daughter, she’d always been precious to Sansa. When Sansa realized her daughter would be her last child, she wanted to keep her small, small enough that Sansa could still wrap her in her arms and protect her, forever. 

Her marriage to Stannis had been so strange at first. How could she get to know this man, who lost his wife and daughter so tragically, who responded to neither flattery nor flirtation? She finally gave up, and simply went about her duties as queen. She would charm or manipulate the lords and ladies of Westeros, depending on the day. 

“You’re good at it,” he muttered once, under his breath. 

She began to see the man beneath the steel. He started to reach for her hand under the table. She began to tell him not what he wanted to hear, but rather what he needed to hear. With another king, it might have earned her a slap across the face. With Stannis, it earned his highest form of approval: a curt nod. 

Sansa returned to her own room. She sent her maids away. She began to take her hair down herself, grateful to have something to do with her hands. She began to cry. No matter how busy she stayed throughout the day, at night, it all came rushing back to her. She remembered Stannis clutching his chest and gasping. He fell to the ground as Sansa screamed to summon the maester. She had pounded on his chest, screamed his name, but nothing helped. They pulled her away from him, sobbing. Now, she got into bed every night, alone. He wasn’t there to wrap his arms around her. He wasn’t there to let her rest her head on his chest and tell him about the children, and what they’d gotten into that day. She missed his sarcastic replies and the way his voice sounded when she’d impressed him. She missed his beard brushing against her skin as he kissed her goodnight. 

She allowed herself to rest her face in her hands. She’d had to be so strong, for the children, for the realm. She just wanted a moment to be weak. 

“Ser, Ser, please!” she could hear one of her handmaidens, Simona, shouting through the door. 

“I am no Ser, my lady,” a voice came through. The doors swung open. Jon came in, followed closely by a flustered Simona. 

“My lady, I tried to tell him you were not to be disturbed,” she said. 

“Leave us, Simona,” she ordered. The girl left, closing the doors. 

“Sansa, I came as soon as I heard, how are the children?” he asked. Time had been kind to him. He was more handsome than ever. 

Still in her mourning, she was wearing a black gown. He was wearing a cloak trimmed with white fur. She was death, and he was life. She went to him, and kissed him, desperate to drink the very life from his mouth. The more she drank of him, the more she needed. His mouth was good and sweet and full of life, but she had to find more. Surely there was more underneath his clothes and furs. She began to tug and pull at his clothes.

“Sansa, Sansa, my love, my love, stop. There’s no rush,” he said, pulling away. For Jon, it felt wrong to take advantage of her grief.

“I need you, I need you Jon,” she said. She wrapped her fingers through his hair and pulled his mouth to hers. Jon felt as though he were ripping the very flesh from his body, but he pulled away yet again. 

“Sansa, you’re fresh widowed.”

“My husband lives, and he is here, finally,” Jon could have resisted her all night. He’d been resisting for ten years. But those were the only words that could break him. And of course she knew what those words were. She knew the threads of his soul. 

Jon began to pour life back into her. He kissed the eyes that burned from so many tears. He sucked on the ears that had turned deaf to condolences. The hands that prayed were pulled into his mouth, one digit at a time, to wash away the pain that was in the very tips of her fingers. 

Once they undressed, he found her weary heart, under her breasts. He rubbed his face against her breasts, to get as close to her heart as he could. He pulled her nipple into his mouth, to remind her that her body was not just a vessel for pain, that it was made for pleasure. His hands covered every inch of her. Oh, and his mouth, his mouth, his mouth. Life came into her body through his mouth. He kissed and sucked and licked, leaving behind life where there had only been death. 

His mouth played with her bellybutton, making her squeal and squirm, and for the first time in weeks, she laughed. His tongue danced between the soft swell of her stomach and the top of her red curls. When she was a girl, she used to beg him to hurry through this part, to not tease her anymore. What a fool she’d been. She laid still, her legs open, and waited patiently. Jon dragged his tongue over her thighs. Finally, he began to lick her lips. He was so gentle at first. Then, he was not quite so gentle. He pulled her lips into his mouth, tugging on her. 

He began to move harder and faster against her body. He found the hard, round, pearl nestled in her flesh and circled it with his tongue. She gasped and moaned. His fingers entered her, pressing on her insides, mirroring the pressure on her outsides. It was too intense for her and she cried for him to stop but he kept going. Just when she thought she couldn’t take it anymore, white spots burst in front of her eyes and she went blind with pleasure. She blindly groped the bed, searching for Jon, trying to make sense of her surroundings. 

But he found her. His body raised up over hers, and he kissed her. The taste of her flesh was still on his lips. It mingled in their mouths. She lay still, waiting for her eyesight to return to her. When she could see again, the only thing she saw was Jon. She saw his shy smile, pleased with himself for giving her such pleasure. She saw his dark eyes, patiently watching her rest. His skin seemed so pale, but she assumed that was just because she was used to the hint of color the Southron sun left in everyone’s skin. His scars stood out against his ivory skin, and so did his black body hair. As a boy he’d been lean as an arrow, but he’d grown thick with muscle and gorgeous flesh. His cock stood proud between his legs. She reached for it. He just watched her. 

Her hand slid up and down his cock. He twitched, and she was delirious at the thought of giving him pleasure. She climbed between his legs and took his cock into her mouth. His moan filled her with joy. She needed to hear it again, immediately. She did away with the gentle teasing, and just did whatever would produce a moan or a gasp, because each sound reminded her that she could still bring pleasure into this world. She was not dead. She was alive, and Jon’s moan was proof of that. 

Jon reached down and wrapped his hands around his arms. He would not come in her mouth, not tonight. He laid her back against the bed. He slid into her sweet flesh. Warm, wet skin wrapped around him. He was in a strange city, but he was home. He was with Sansa. He was inside of her. He began to thrust, each stroke bringing them closer together. 

Sansa realized she was crying. She did not know if she cried for Stannis, or for herself, or for Jon, but she cried all the same.

“Do you want me to stop?” Jon asked, worried this was all too much for her.

“No, never,” she said. 

He brushed away her tears and tried to get her to look into his eyes. It was too intense, so he allowed her to hide her face in his neck. Her cries began to soften, and then they changed entirely. She moaned and tried to get him closer, which was impossible, since he was inside of her. He thrust harder and harder until she was gasping and moaning. She came, clutching at his back.

She wanted to abandon all thought and just exist with Jon, but a terrible realization came over her. If she got pregnant, the world would assume the baby was a Baratheon. She brought her mouth close to Jon’s ear. 

“You must not come inside of me, my love,” she whispered. He looked hurt, but he took his cock in his hand and came on Sansa’s stomach. He collapsed beside her, and she pulled some linen from her night table to clean herself up. 

He held his arm up so she could curl up against his body. She lay on his chest, stroking his skin, wet with sweat. He was not used to the heat. Her eyes began to flutter and she realized how tired she was. She hadn’t slept properly in weeks. Perhaps with Jon close she could finally get some rest. 

“It’s so warm here,” he said. 

“Yes, it is,” she said, still pulling him closer. 

“How long is enough time to wait before we can leave for Winterfell?”

It was like the sound of firewood cracking when the room had been silent. She wanted to pretend she hadn’t heard him. She wanted to ignore the question and fall into a deep, restful sleep, surrounded by her lover’s skin. But he made a soft “Hmm?” sound and stroked her arm. 

“My love…”

“I’m sure have a great deal to tend to before we can leave. I can help you,” he said, so kindly she didn’t think it could possibly have been real. 

“My love, surely you know, I can’t leave,” she said. He stopped stroking her arm. 

“Well, not right away, but soon,” he said. 

“No, I can’t. I can’t be away from my children.” 

He sat up in bed. “They...they can ward in Winterfell until they come of age.” She sat up beside him, hoping to make him see sense.

“Steffon is the King. He has to be here, in the capital. And I must be here, to protect him, to help him,” she explained. 

“He has a Hand, the Small Council, advisors…”

“None of them are his mother. He’s but a boy. He has many loyal councilors who will put his best interests first, and many who will seek to use his youth against him. It’s my job to help him learn which is the former or the latter,” she said. 

“Sansa, I have waited ten years to be with you,” he said, his naked chest beginning to rise and fall rapidly. “You called me your husband, just now.”

“We can get married in a few months. Stay here, in the capital. I’ll create a position for you on the Small Council,” she said. 

“And who would rule over Winterfell? I have no heir and we have no other kin,” he said, as if she needed to be reminded of their lack of kin.   
Sansa had to think quickly. She could not lose him again. If she rejected him a second time, she would surely lose him permanently. 

“I...things will be different this time. We can write to each other, we can visit each other, as often as possible.” She was desperate to keep him in her life. 

“I’ve waited for you and you offer me letters and a few nights a year? We’d never be able to conceive that way, and even if we did, I would miss half of my child’s life?”

His anger was like a lash against her skin. He stood up and began to dress. No, no, no….

“Jon, I love you,” she said. 

“Do not speak of love to me!” 

He pulled his shirt over his head. “I have waited for you for ten years, yet we can still not be together because you can not be away from your children.”

The unfairness sparked her own anger. 

“I’m sorry that my husband didn’t die sooner for your liking. I’m sorry that your King–who made you a Stark and the Lord of Winterfell–lived so terribly long, even though my daughter likely won’t remember his face.”

His face distorted with guilt.

“I’m sorry. But I don’t want letters and a few trips when the seasons allow it. I want you. I want to walk through the courtyard with you, and bring you flowers from the glass gardens. I want to sit with you in the godswood and bathe in the hot springs. I want to raise our children together. I want you to be the Lady of Winterfell, like you should have been all along.”

“I am offering you all that I can possibly give to you.”

He finished dressing. “It’s not enough.”

“Then you should leave,” she said, not believing her own voice.

He turned to the door like he had ten years ago. Like he had ten years ago, he stopped. 

“Perhaps it’s time I take a wife,” he said. She wasn’t sure if it was a test, or what the right answer would have been. Was she supposed to let him go, or hold on?

“Perhaps,” she said. 

Once the door was closed, she sat down on the edge of the bed. She was alone, again.


	3. Chapter 3

Simona let her know that the King had requested to see her. When she entered his solar, Steffon had his back to her, looking out of his balcony over the courtyard. He stood tall, and proud. He stood like a king. When he heard her footsteps he turned and smiled. 

“Mother,” he said, before he kissed her forehead. 

“I trust the meeting with Lord Garlan went well?”

“As well as a meeting with a Tyrell can go. They produce half of our wheat, and they will never let us forget it,” he said. Sansa wondered how he’d dealt with the Tyrell.

“I had to keep _complimenting_ the Reach, but eventually he came down on the price,” he said the word as if it offended him. He gestured to the massive table and they sat down.

“I knew you could do it. You make me so proud,” she said as she sat. 

“I just listen to you,” he said. 

“You have your own instincts as well,” she said. It was true. He watched people. He listened to what they were truly saying.

“Yes, but you taught me how to use them,” he said. At the moment, he was watching her. “You’ve taught me so much, and I’m so grateful.”

“Of course, it’s been my greatest honor and pleasure, watching you become a just, fair king.”

“Yes, of course. But…”

“What?”

“I’m fifteen, nearly a man grown. And I have my Mother, still helping me. Watching over my shoulder. Men...notice such things.”

She braced herself. She knew this day was coming. She did not move and said nothing, waiting for him to speak. She wanted to see how he would handle such a delicate conversation.

“Wouldn’t you be happier, perhaps in Winterfell? You talk about it so much. The godswood, the summer snows, the cold, fresh air?” He began by offering her something she wanted.

“You would send me to Winterfell?” That part surprised her. She thought perhaps she would be an honored guest at a Southron house, or perhaps even Storm’s End.

“I want you to be happy,” he said. He reached across the table and took her hand. 

“I’m happy by your side,” she said, covering his hand with her own.

“I need to be able to rule, on my own. I may make mistakes, but I must learn,” he said. She could see the struggle in his face. He was torn between the child and the man. He craved independence and was terrified of it in equal parts. He wanted to keep his mother close, but he knew he as long as she was near, he would never grow into the king he needed to be.

She felt her son, her very life, slipping away from her. Had her own mother felt the same way when her son became King?

“And you can not learn with your mother watching over your shoulder.” 

“No.”

“Is that all?”

“No.”

“What else?”

“Lord Stark needs an heir, or the North will dissolve into chaos. And the stubborn mule won’t seem to marry anyone, no matter how many beautiful maidens are paraded in front of him. It seems as though he’s waiting for someone.” Steffon raised his eyebrows. Damn him. She’d taught him too much. 

Steffon read the cards in front of him. A lord, without an heir, unmarried for sixteen years. His mother, who spoke too often, too longingly, of her childhood home. 

“You would have me wed Lord Stark?” she asked. 

“Like I said, I want you to be happy.”

Sansa looked at her hands, joined with Steffon’s. Why wasn’t she leaping, crying, running down the hall to go pack her trunks? It was the same reason she’d lingered in King’s Landing long after Steffon had started to show that he was capable of leadership.

“Jon loved me once. And then I chose your father. He loved me still, but then I chose my children, instead of him. I do not know if he can still love me.”

“I don’t think he ever stopped loving you, Mother,” Steffon said, squeezing her hand. 

\------

Cassy peered out of the window of the carriage. “Will we follow the river the whole way?” she asked. 

Sansa was about to answer when Davos beat her to it. 

“Most of the way, until we meet up with the Kingsroad. It won’t be far from there,” he explained. 

They sailed to White Harbor and travelled by land from there. She might have been able to part with Steffon, but she would not be separated from Davos or Cassana. 

“The Lords of Winterfell are buried in the crypts,” Davos stated. “Will you show us the crypts Mother?”

She’d been grateful for their energy and excitement throughout the trip. She couldn’t help but feel pride at their curiosity. She was glad to answer their questions. It distracted her from the dread swirling in her stomach. 

Some time later, Cassy pressed her face to the window and shouted, “I see a castle! I see a castle!”

Sansa began to cry. “Are you sad, Mother?” her daughter asked, hugging her. Sansa smelled her daughter’s hair, the warm, soft scent of lilac bringing her comfort. She was the most thoughtful girl in the entire world. Sansa held her tight. She could not tell her daughter that she was terrified. She simply said, “I’ve missed Winterfell so much, my love.”

The litter and their guards rode through the gates of Winterfell. The entire castle was assembled for the arrival of the Queen Mother, the Prince, and Princess. 

One of her guards opened the door and she stepped out, the children behind her. She looked for him. 

He looked like the Lords of Winterfell in the crypts, his face hard, his lips a thin line, his eyes unmoving. She walked up to him. He stayed still as stone until he bowed to her, and the rest of the castle followed suit. Davos and Cassana were well trained, standing with perfect dignity next to Sansa. 

He stood. “Your Grace,” he said, his voice betraying nothing but courtesy.

Sansa prayed her voice would not fail her. “Lord Stark.”

He turned to a servant who handed something to him. 

“Welcome home,” he said, handing her a blue winter rose. 

She lost control and threw herself to him. He caught her and held her. They kissed, in a way that was entirely inappropriate for the occasion. A mighty cheer went up around the courtyard.

He finally set her down. They pulled away, laughing and composing themselves. He turned to look at her children. 

That was the last part. Even if Jon could love her, could he love her children? Through no fault of their own, they had kept them apart. They were a living reminder of their time apart. 

“Prince Davos, Princess Cassana. Welcome to Winterfell,” he said. 

“Thank you, Lord Stark,” Davos said. 

“Thank you, Lord Stark,” Cassana repeated, with a curtsy. 

Jon kneeled close to them. 

“When your mother was a little girl, she loved lemon cakes. Do you like lemon cakes?”

Her enthusiasm got the best of her and Cassy nearly shouted “Lemon cakes are my favorite!” 

Jon laughed. “Well that’s lucky, because there will be plenty of lemon cakes tonight, and we wouldn’t want your Mother to have to eat them all on her own.”

He turned and took Sansa’s hand, leading them into Winterfell.

Sansa started that day with so many fears. She feared that Jon would not be able to love her, or her children. She feared that even if he could still love her, she was too old to bear him an heir. One by one, her fears dissolved. When Jon had a spare moment, he spent it in the training yard with Davos. At night, he told them stories about his time beyond the Wall, while they both listened, captivated. The stories that touched Sansa’s heart the most were the ones about the time Jon spent with Stannis. They had so few memories of their own, so Jon shared his.

They all returned to the capital several years later for Cassana’s wedding to Lord Garlan’s heir, Ser Loras. Jon and Sansa presented Brandon, Benjen, and Aemon to their half brother, the King. 

“Lord Stark, you’ve given me more brothers. And you finally have an heir,” Steffon said, as he bent to pick up Benjen, who was fascinated by his crown. “Took long enough.” Jon smiled.

“Some things are worth waiting for, Your Grace.”


End file.
